


Deleted Scenes

by Dramatological



Series: Unspoken Accords [3]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Animal Death, Body Paint, Comedy, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fade Sex, Gallows Humor, Grief/Mourning, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Is it necrophilia if they're both dead?, Mayhem, Non-Consensual Spit, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:26:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramatological/pseuds/Dramatological
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes that didn't fit in the series.  Because they're out of character, crack, or just too damned silly.</p><p>No actual order to these, no over-arching story.  Just some scenes that needed to be written, because they seriously needed to be written.</p><p>Tags, pairings, and rating will likely evolve as scenes are added.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cullen Mourns a Goat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ceranna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceranna/gifts), [Calescent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calescent/gifts), [Kenau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenau/gifts), [sightsoblind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sightsoblind/gifts), [Angelavenger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelavenger/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can blame this one on Ceranna:
> 
> _P.S any outtakes? Like Cullen getting all teary over goats thrown at Skyhold :D_
> 
> Based on this scene: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570/chapters/7576046>

"With a… Goat." Josephine said the word flatly, somewhat reluctantly, as if not entirely sure herself she was saying it. Cullen looked up at her, his brows knitting. What had happened with the goat? He really needed to pay more attention at these judgements. He slid past a couple of the nobles who were standing between him and the Inquisitor, craning his neck to see the prisoner.

One of the Avaar, shackled, dried bits of… was that dung? Cullen lifted his chin a little to smell… Yes, yes, the man was covered in dried dung. Wonderful. Thankfully, he was a bit past the point in his life where he might have to clean up after guests. But he'd missed the rest of the conversation. He sighed to himself, turning to grace the nobles with his best smile. It wasn't a very good best smile, he mostly looked pained and grimacing, but iit would have to do, "Excuse me, did you happen to hear…?" He waved a hand at the proceedings.

"Oh!" The woman fluttered a fan at her face as if she might faint and the man laughed, putting a hand on her back.

"You must forgive her," he said in the thick accent of Orlais, "She has a delicate temper and this conversation. Well, it's simply not fit for ladies." He leaned forward towards the commander and lowered his voice, "He was throwing goats at the keep wall. Live goats."

Cullen went very still, staring at the man, "His own goats?"

The man blinked, leaning back, "Aaah. I do not know. But there are perfectly good goats in the valley, why would he bring his own goat so far?"

The air rushed out of the room, leaving the commander dizzy, light headed with lack of oxygen. He could hear his pulse, thundering in his ear. No. No, not… Before he could finish the thought he was shoving past the startled noble, running for the door.

He dodged the people he could, shoved the ones he couldn't, he even managed to leap over a couple of dwarves standing between him and the stairs. He slid down the stairs, barely touching them, flying past Vivienne who started yelling about his lack of composure. He didn't stop, he couldn't. He had to see, he had to make sure.

Turner was standing in the gate, and caught him as he tried to bowl the man over, "Sir! Sir! You don't want ta see this, sir. Not like this."

Cullen jerked back, his eyes wild, "No," he said, demanded, stepping forward again to intimidate the man physically, as if that could make him take it back, "No!"

Turner's face screwed up in grief and he spread his hands, helpless, "I'm sorry, Commander, she's gone."

"No!" Cullen leaned forward, shaking his head, one fist balled into the cloth of his tunic, "She survived a Qunari invasion! The mage rebellion! Haven!" Turner just kept shaking his head, tears pouring unheeded down his cheeks, "She was the last of them, Turner! The last of the Kirkwall Fifteen!"

Turner turned away, holding his hands to his head. He stumbled to a wall and put his back against it, sliding down to huddle at the base, "She was the best of them, sir. The leader. The way she muscled out them fense posts…" He rubbed at his cheeks, trying to make the tears go away by erasing the evidence of their passage, "I'll never forget how she tripped Chissik in the great stampede. Busted his lip wide open." His breath hitched and he could barely force out the words, his voice breaking, wailing, "Then fainted!"

Cullen held up a hand, stumbling past the man. Surely there was some mistake. It was some other goat. One of the ones they'd brought from Orlais. It wasn't a Kirkwall goat. It wasn't The Kirkwall goat. He cleared the corner and took a couple of steps before he saw it -- the little green bow tied to one of her tiny horns.

A great, shuddering breath, a hand trailing along the wall to keep himself upright as he crossed the last few paces to her. He dropped to his knees, leaning forward to gather the tiny body close to his chest, "Oh, Roxy," he whispered, the tears finally falling, "It shoulda been me, Roxy. It shoulda been me."

The commander threw his head back and screamed his anguish at the heavens.

-=-=-=-

The guardsman looked down from the top of the wall, tilting his head, "You ever get the feeling we joined the wrong Inquisition, Shim?"

The man next to him took another bite of apple and chewed thoughtfully, watching the commander, "Every day, Jessup. Every day."


	2. Varric Makes a New Crossbow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame this one on Calescent and Kenau:
> 
> _And possibly a fic with Sera setting everything [on] fire._   
>  _With Varric constructing [a] special kind of bow, which shoots mini Molotov cocktails rather than arrows?_
> 
> From this chapter: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/3722593/chapters/8949403>

Bull knocked a chair out from the table and settled his bulk into it carefully, leaning back, steepling his fingers over his chest, tips touching his lips as he looked at the dwarf, expectant.

It took a moment, but eventually Varric looked up, arching a brow, "Tiny. Something I can help you with?"

Bull narrowed his good eye and tilted his head forward conspiratorially, "I hear you've been tinkering with a new weapon."

Varric laughed softly and leaned back, "You can take a qunari out of the ben hassrath…"

The former spy just nodded slowly, "Exactly. Now hand it over. I have … plans."

The dwarf gave the giant a charming smile and tapped a couple of fingertips on the table, "Love to, Tiny, but Sera wanted…"

"What, now?" The qunari's eye had gotten wide.

"Sera wanted to see…"

"Wait," the man interrupted again, waving a hand, "You gave a fire-grenade-launching crossbow to Sera?"

The dwarf stared at the giant for a moment, then cleared his throat softly, picking his fingertips off the table to rub them together, his lips pursing, "Perhaps that wasn't…" A crash sounded from outside the doors and Varric closed his mouth.

Bull continued to stare at the rogue while nobles murmured in confusion, a few running for the doors. Outside, someone shouted, yelling for buckets. The roar of flame could be heard, and then a completely different sort of roar -- the Commander, in full recruit-yelling mode, "Sera!"

Varric cleared his throat, leaning to one side to rest his elbow on the table, fingertips raising to brush his forehead. There was a commotion at the doors, nobles gasping and chattering and scattering as a small, blond blur sprinted into the great hall, skidding around people before it vanished down the hallway towards to gardens.

Bull tilted his head, chewing on his lip, looking out the window where the scaffolding against the outwall was engulfed in flame. He hitched a shoulder slightly, "Really, they were about to tear that down anyway…"

The dwarf winced, his brows furrowing. Neither man moved at the commander thundered into the room, pushing more nobles back. He had his sword out, scanning the room, "Sera!" Cullen yelled, "You can't hide forever!" He stormed forward, moving through fluttering Orlesian lords and ladies who found the man far too pretty to worry about the bare steel he was brandishing. No doubt several would consider a stab wound or two fair payment for the man's attentions.

The press closed around the man, slowing his pursuit to a crawl, then ending it all together as he suddenly noticed he'd wandered into the shark tank with hunks of meat tied to his groin. He cleared his throat, putting the sword away quickly, eyes wide, perhaps a tad panicked.

"Oh, commander… You are so… commanding," one lady said. To be fair, it wasn't the worst pick up line in the history of Thedas, but Bull still cringed at the fireplace in front of him.

"Ahh…" Cullen started, rubbing the back of his neck as he blushed brightly, "Has anyone seen a uh…" He skittered to one side, then squeaked and skittered back the other direction when another lady caught him from the rear, "That is… I… There's a … Fire!" He word ended in a higher pitched than normal voice as he jumped, then dove for the door, clearing out and taking the whole gaggle of nobles with him.

Bull took a death breath, then let it out slowly. Varric rubbed at his temple slowly, "Let's not…" the dwarf started before twisting his lips and starting again, "Let's not tell the seeker about this."


	3. Isabela at Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame this on sightsoblind:
> 
> _Don't let Bella know you killed her comrades in mayhem!!!_   
>  _Oh and now I want to see Bella out at sea post Kirkwall..._
> 
> Also based on this chapter: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570/chapters/7576046>

Bela blamed Varric.

It really was all his fault, with his need to write letters, and tell stories, and pass on the latest news. She'd really only meant to have a bit of a toast, a moment of silence, a bit of a wave goodbye to the end of an age. The passing of an era. The last of the Kirkwall Fifteen.

If she were honest with herself and her crew, she didn't actually remember Roxy. She remembered Frank, or to be more precise, Frank's bum and the sweet little choking hisses and squeals when she'd smacked him with the crop. The way he hopped into action at her muttered command, the muscles of his back flexing as he made a terribly convincing, but entirely unproductive show of trying to shake her off. She definitely remembered hands on her thighs and a certain awkward reluctance to let her go when the stampede started and she'd had to rescue the less than useless Hawke Sister.

But the goat? No, not really. There were goats. Red had panicked them. They had stampeded. Well, about a third of them had. Another third had fainted, while the rest frolicked about in the courtyard as if there were butterflies that needed cheering up.

So a dead goat, not really high on her list of priorities, but there was rum. And a big, big hat. And who couldn't use with a bit of a nod to nostalgia? And Frank's bum.

And really, once you cracked open a cask that big, it was a shame to waste it.

Okay, so maybe she was a little bit at fault for starting a brawl. And maybe she could have done without starting that fire, but mutiny? She'd given those jerks rum and excitement and a really, really big hat, and they mutinied? Who does that?

Really, it was just too much to endure, and she was going to write a very strongly worded letter to someone. Just as soon as she reached land. And remembered where she'd gotten that crew full of latent mutineers and rum drinkers. And found some pants.

On the whole, though, life wasn't too bad. She had a whole cask of rum to herself, the softly drifting waves of her beloved sea, the gentle lapping of the water against the side of the dinghy, and her really quite large hat providing shade perfect for long naps.

She stretched and kicked a bare leg up over the side of the dinghy and trailed her toes in the salt water. She lifted the edge of the hat and squinted into the brilliant light, the gulls dancing overhead. She let the hat settle again and yawned a little, wiggling her toes in the cool water. Couple more days till she drifted into port, plenty of rum, the beginnings of a truly fabulous tan, the hat to end all hats, and no pants.

Bela was doing just fine, truth be told. She missed her ship a little, sure, but in two days she'd be back in Kirkwall, partaking of the Hanged Man's hospitality.

And Frank's bum.


	4. Justice in the Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame Angelavenger:
> 
> _The idea of justice rubbing his spirit juice all over people was gross and perfect. i just imagine him in the fade licking all of them and being like "they are mine now" no take backsies._
> 
> From here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570/chapters/8091210>

There was a giggle from the figure next to her. High pitched, a little manic. It didn't sound like Merrill, nor the sort of thing Anders or Fenris would just … do. She shook her head, blinking her eyes rapidly, trying to sort out the sensations of the Fade. Maker, but she hated this place. Everything moved.

The architecture eventually settled into something resembling normal and she turned to find Anders beaming at her with the brightest, happiest, most puppy love grin she'd ever seen on anyone, let alone him. No, not Anders. He was all swirly black and blue eyes, crackles of energy, "Uh. Justice?"

He giggled at her again. Justice was giggling like a school girl. That was right up there on the list of creepiest things that had ever happened to her. She smiled weakly at him and he bit his bottom lip, looking around, grinning before prancing off. Prancing. Justice was…

"Hawke."

Hawke blinked and switched her attention to Fenris, her shoulders sliding down into a more natural, less uptight pose. Her smile stretched out, lounging into just this side of dopey, "Fenris."

Fenris blinked at her before he hitched a shoulder awkwardly, "We should go."

Hawke stifled a sigh, "Yeah. Listen. Thanks for coming, I know you didn't want to."

"Oh! Oh my… What…?" Merrill was being Merill. Hawke just kept smiling at Fenris. He stared back at her, possibly looking a little panicked, "Oh! Oh, Hawke? Hawke!" Merrill was now squeaking. What in the…? Hawke tore her gaze from the elf to look back, frowning.

Justice had the poor elf cornered, and his tongue leaving great gobs of spit on her cheek. For a second, Hawke just stood there, one hand shaking, "Uh…" She looked back at Fenris. He seemed as lost as she did. She looked back, biting her lip, "Justice?"

Justice went very still, his tongue still attached to Merrill's temple. His eyes opened and tracked over towards Hawke. A pause before he jerked back suddenly with a slurping sound. He cleared his throat, folding his hands together and looking around. Merrill wiped at her wet cheek and shook off long strings of saliva. The poor girl looked traumatized.

"Right. Let's just..." Hawke narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the spirit, "Uh. Find Feynriel. Yeah. Let's… Do that."

Justice nodded solemnly and started off, heading further into the complex. Merrill falling into step as she swiped her wet hand at her robe and gave Hawke a weak half-grimace that might have been meant to be a smile.

The spirit was waiting for them, though. He'd prepared an ambush. Hawke no sooner left the room when a warm, wet, somewhat sluggish lick trailed up her cheek. She screamed and jerked backward, pinwheeling her arms as she tipped over into Fenris who made a grab at her but missed, managing to knock her into Merrill, and all three went down.

"Justice!" Hawke pushed at the elf, crawling out from under her and staggering back towards her feet, "What in the blighted void are you…" Justice giggled again as Hawke pulled Fenris up after her, the elf staring hard at the spirit. She stopped talking, waving her hands about.

"Dibs!" the spirit cried gleefully, throwing his arms wide with a huge grin, "I called dibs!" His manic grin suddenly vanished and he stared hard at Hawke, his eyes fevered, wild, and far too intense, "No take backsies," he murmured in a soft, threatening voice. A second and his grin reappeared. He looked at Fenris.

"One step and I will end you, mage."


	5. Arishok Paints Hawke Like one of his Karasten Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all the Arishawke shippers in the house. Let us fan girl, together.
> 
> This happens sometime during Bits of her Soul, in the Fade.

Hawke hissed a soft breath through her teeth as the dagger sliced across her palm, but held still as the Arishok positioned the freely bleeding wound over a copper bowl that had already been filled with some sort of nameless red powder.

"This should kill you," the man said, looking up at her, head tilted to one side.

"The stones should have killed me," she retorted, arching a brow.

"Collared you," he corrected.

"You would like me better, collared?" Hawke had meant to be teasing, flirtatious, but the Arishok merely furrowed his brows, looking down at the bowl as he added water and stirred the contents with one claw.

"No," he answered finally, his voice deep, soft, tinged with what might have been melancholy on someone else. Hawke narrowed her eyes at him but didn't say anything else. The Arishok was deep in thought, struggling with something, and it would be best to wait until he'd found his own way out of the quagmire in his mind.

A moment passed before he scooped a couple of fingers worth of the red dye onto his palm and rubbed his hands together. He looked at her again, finally, then carefully smeared his palms down her shoulders and up onto her chest over her collarbones, "This marks you _Antaam_ , my body."

Hawke blinked at that, then looked away, swallowing. She was absurdly touched by that. Senseless, fertile ground for meaning that she only made up in her head. After a moment she cleared her throat, "You would claim a _bas sarebas_ as your own?" Her voice sounded small in the quiet, tentative and uncertain, but it was too late to swallow the words, so she left them, hanging in the air between them.

If he noticed her weakness, he did not mention it, nor draw any attention to it, "I claimed you _basilt'an_ in life and kadan in death." He trailed off, thick claws now tracing parallel lines over her ribs and the swell of her breasts. His hands slowed as he watched her nipples stiffen into peaks under his attention before carefully painting those as well with gentle strokes of his thumbs. He caught her eye finally, "You accepted my respect and my heart without question, Hawke. Do you now balk at my body?"

A soft gasp of breath lifted her chest, pressing back against his warm hands, still dripping with her blood and the red dye. She searched his eyes, looking for something she couldn't find in the alien pupils, the ridge of his brows and sweep of horns. While there was no doubt the beast could see what effect his words were having, it was impossible to tell if he meant them to, or even if he could decode what her trembling signified. "No, Arishok," she whispered, answering perhaps many more questions than the man had asked.

The Arishok accepted that answer, and perhaps even the many meanings attached, with a simple nod. He lifted a hand, carefully wrapping the great thing around Hawke's delicate throat, long fingers rubbing gently, claws scraping at the skin of her nape. He dipped a couple of knuckles back into the paint and began to draw intersecting lines down from her waist to meet at her navel, still holding her by the neck.

Hawke's eyes drifted closed and she let her head fall back, arms hanging limp at her side, completely enthralled by his touch. She neither noticed, nor cared about the Arishok's men lining the walls, now watching the presentation with an interest they'd not shown before, a great many eyes appreciating her shameless display.

The beast was silent as he continued to work, laying down the lines and edges of the vitaar with a single-minded focus, only the caress of his thumb, rubbing compulsively at the pulse in her neck, gave any hint that he was aware of her, shivering to pieces in front of him. By the time he had finished the last touches, his knuckle stilling just at the top of her public bone, her breathing had been reduced to repeated, soft gasps.

He didn't release her, keeping her still and upright while his hand slid away from her navel to settle, flat-palmed against her upper thigh, leaving bright red smears of dye in the wake, heedless as he gripped the muscle, pulling at the skin of her groin with a great thumb, his eyes caught on the soft, pink, glistening flesh he exposed.

Hawke twitched, her hips jerking as she gasped, warning, or pleading, or both, "Arishok."

Arishok's voice was deep, husky when he answered her in a similarly warning velvet growl, "Hawke." A pause, his thumb moving to catch the slick lip that tried to slide away, keeping her center exposed. A breath, "There are no tamassran, here," he said softly.

Hawke went very still, daring not to move, barely breathing, her eyes blinking open to stare at the sunless sky. Unwilling to swallow or clear her throat, lest the movement shock him from his reverie, her voice was thick when she answered, "What is the correct action?"

A momentary pause before his large hand squeezed her throat, "Leave us," he said decisively.


End file.
